Bouncer's War Story

I’ll tell you all my best war story… and my only one come to think of it. It’s about my first, last, and only night working as a bouncer. It’s a good story, though it’s not conventional, and doesn’t have a happy ending. Some people find it too hard to believe, so I don’t blame you if you think I’m making this up. I wish I had made it up.

It happened in ’04 when I was attending college in Orlando. I had previously lived the majority of my life in a small town about 100 miles away and was still coping with moving to a big city. I come from a pretty poor family and was living almost entirely on several scholarships I’d wrangled in high school. They all had very high academic requirements, typically negating any possibility of working part time if I wanted to keep my grades up.

One semester my class load was lighter than usual so I thought I could manage taking on a job. The only problem was that Orlando is a very seasonal city, most business dries up during the hot-as-blazes months, which, if you’ve ever been to Florida, you would know last between March and October. I couldn’t find a job anywhere; even Macdonald’s. I guess being a straight A student double majoring in Psychology and English Literature wasn’t enough to qualify me over the gang-banger wannabe who misspelled his name on the application. Oh well.

A roommate of mine who turned out to be my best friend over the years between then and now, happened to “know someone”. You know the type. I personally am a huge hermit who can go for weeks without speaking to anyone with no trouble. He, on the other hand, knows everyone living on this planet and is on a first name basis with all of them. No matter what your problem is, he always “Knows Someone”.

He told me that a friend of his was a bouncer in an adult dance club and could probably get me hired as the club was short on staff. Pay was 10 bucks an hour, almost twice the minimum wage in this miserable state. Four hours a night from 10 PM to 2 AM; perfect for an insomniac like me who had all morning classes.

What I haven’t told you so far is that I’m six and a half feet tall, three and a half feet wide at the shoulders, and weigh close to 300 pounds, at least back then I did. Admittedly I am no longer in the best of shape, I’ve got a bit of a gut and moobs, no stamina whatsoever, but I’m strong enough to rip most small trees out of the earth by the roots and lift the front end of my car (no joke). This combined with an expression grimmer than your average undertaker means most people leave me be. Because of that I’m a pretty gentle guy. I could count the number of fights I’ve been in on one hand and still have fingers left because most people get the impression that starting something with me would be a bad idea. In actual fact, violence is usually the very last thing on my mind.

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’ve developed a decent martial background, albeit inadvertently. My grandfather started training me in boxing from the age of 9. I’ve got no stamina but most things don’t stand up to any punch I land. Also he showed me a few things to use in a pinch that he’d learned from 22 years of experience as a combat Marine.

Since then I’ve augmented my martial experience by acquainting myself with various forms of martial arts. Living in a small town for most of my life, I never benefitted from real training with a master instructor. Most of what I know I learned from books and training manuals. As a result I developed a good working knowledge of body kinetics and can usually come up with something on the fly.

When most people think of Orlando things like Disney and Universal Studios come to mind. It’s a tourists’ haven for good, wholesome, profitable, family-oriented fun. What most people who haven’t lived there don’t know is that it hosts a ridiculously large number of erotic dance bars and strip clubs that cater to just about every fetish you could name.

So I head out to Orange Blossom Trail for my first night of work, which is a road lined with neon bar and club signs. Thankfully when I got to the address I found it was a normal and pretty nice looking strip club, nothing too weird to me. Though I personally don’t enjoy going to clubs of any sort, working in one was no bother. No smoking inside, a three stage arena with full kitchen and bar, good looking dancers with no obvious track marks. All in all it was above par for my expectations.

I met the head bouncer, a grizzled man in his forties with arms made from corded steel by the name of Joe. He made sure I was wearing plain jeans and combat boots like I’d been instructed. He gave me my SECURITY shirt and the three cent training. Basically it boiled down to issuing two verbal warnings before acting, only touch someone if he looks like he’s going for one of the dancers or has already started a fight, only punch if you’re attacked or if one of the more experienced bouncers attacks first. Seemed straight forward to me.

I was put out on one of the minor stages near the far wall from the bar, where Joe habitually propped himself to watch the crowd. Around one o’clock a group of day laborers started to get a bit rowdy. They’d been steadily drinking most of the night but had stayed quiet until then. They were sitting at the edge of the dance floor I was supposed to cover. There’s a law that requires the dancers to be a full five feet from paying customers, so between the seated patrons and the stage there’s a half step the dancers can use to get down from the front of the stage instead of going around the back if they need to.

One of the men got up on the half step in order to reach for the dancer doing her pole routine. I looked over to Joe and got the nod to step in.

I got to the side to be within his peripheral vision, though he didn’t seem to notice me as he was staring at the girl. I asked him to come down in a clear voice. When he didn’t respond I commanded him to come down. Realizing his friends were speaking to him in Spanish I repeated my request and then gave the command version in Spanish. Linguistics is not my forte but I took four years of it in high school and was taking a refresher course at the time, so I was at my peak and could usually be understood. He still ignored me.

He was swaying only slightly, though his eyes were clear. I was guessing that if he was beyond the legal limit, it was only just. His friends were calling to him and telling him to come down, but he wasn’t listening. His friends weren’t touching him though, which I should’ve noticed. Too bad my attention was on him. By then he was pawing at the girl’s ankle. The dancers usually know what they’re doing though. They don’t pull back as that might anger the man, and they don’t lean in as that would encourage him. They just stay calm and neutral.

I got another nod from Joe to put hands on the man. So I reached up, grabbed his left arm, and pulled him down and back from the step. As he spun around to face me I heard a click and saw a flash. That was my only warning.

A switchblade was in his right hand and he drove it straight for my heart without hesitation. Upon later thought I realized that in order for him to have been that fast he would’ve had to have the knife in his hands before I touched him, meaning he might’ve used it on the dancer.

I got lucky and reacted correctly. I brought my left arm up in an inward curving half circle. I was a bit too quick though. Instead of forearm blocking the man’s wrist out to the side, I caught the blade directly against the back of my lower arm. It cut a gash six inches wide and a half inch deep before I was able to push the blade out of the way of my chest.

It’s at that point that there’s a gap in my memory. The last thing I remember is registering that I’d been stabbed. Then there’s a big blank spot. I came back to the moment when one of the other bouncers tackled me to the floor.

After I’d gotten up off the floor the bouncer apologized to me and gestured to the wreck on the floor that had once been human by way of explanation. Police arrived in about five minutes with an ambulance in tow. The man was placed on a gurney and handcuffed to it. He was unconscious but the police intended to stick him with assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder when he was well enough to be tried. I’ve got to admit at the time I was still a bit mystified with what happened; apparently someone had beaten him up pretty badly. An EMT patched me up and I was taken into the back room by the head bouncer once the cops had left, the club had to be closed early after the hubbub died down.

I asked Joe what happened. He gave me an odd look and asked me what the last thing I remembered was. When I told him, he went over to the camera surveillance system, popped out a tape, and placed it in a VCR in the corner, directing me to a TV set.

I saw myself just before the fight. I saw myself getting stabbed. Then I saw myself grab the man’s wrist and twist it. I flattened his nose with an open palmed thrust. Then I grabbed his pinky finger and bent it backward until it snapped. He dropped the knife at that point, but I wasn’t done. I bent his wrist inward until it snapped in half. I stepped past him, carrying his arm backward as I did so, until his arm was almost horizontal with the ground, pointing backward. I fit my right shoulder underneath his inverted bicep. He was much shorter than I and I had to bend at the knees and waist to do so. I then stood up, driving hard down with my legs to force my body upward, while jerking his arm up and back. It popped his arm clean from the socket at the shoulder and hung at a sickening angle.

By then I was staring at the TV with eyes wide as saucers, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I thought it was over, but it wasn’t. I reached back behind myself to the right to fit his throat in the crook of my elbow. I stuck one foot against the back of his heels and swung my arm forward, brutally flooring him. I then proceeded to jump up and down on his chest. I didn’t stop until one of the bouncers tackled me, the rest of which you know.

I just stared at Joe, open mouthed, dumbfounded. Joe was very kind to me, apparently realizing I’d had a bit of a shock. He said he’d seen it before. Apparently some people have something he called “red outs”. Other people call it going berserk, red rage, blackouts, it’s all the same thing.

Sometimes when someone is hurt in some way their conscious mind goes away for a time while their fight or flight instincts are firmly set on “fight”. I’ve gotten my degree in psychology since then and have found a number of case studies which proposed it is the base reptilian mind which takes over in times of extremis where maximum aggression is the best course of action. The best example of this is the Viking Berserker of legend.

Joe gave me a hundred bucks for my trouble and sent me on my way. He’d seen a couple people like me in the past and knew they wouldn’t make good bouncers. He said he couldn’t hire me. “Son, you’d do a helluva lot more damage than you’d prevent,” were his exact words.

After reading some serious horror stories written by people defending themselves in much less brutal and gruesome manners I’m glad for once that I live in the South. Invariably the defender in an assault case is favored and is typically not even cuffed or arrested by the police at the scene of the fight. The police didn’t even give me a second look and I’ve not heard from them since. After five years, I don’t think I’m about to.

Despite my apparent enthusiasm I was soon left feeling shaky and sick after the adrenaline rush wore off. When my roommate noticed the bandage on my arm the next day, he asked about it. I was dumb enough to tell him the whole story. He relayed it to his friends and always mentioned it at parties as if it were something to be proud of. The funny thing is that he’s more dangerous than I am. He’s a crack shot, survivalist, Eagle Scout, with a black belt in Kung Fu and seven years experience as captain of his wrestling team in both middle school and high school. Oh, he also grew up in the inner city area of Philadelphia. He’s significantly stronger than I’ll ever be to boot. Soon everyone I knew in Orlando knew the story and treated me a little differently because of it.

In any case it’s been five years and the whole experience haunts me still. It’s ok to be confident in one’s ability to defend oneself or those one loves as the situation may dictate. To do that requires control. I had no control whatsoever. I’m a danger to everyone I know, simply by being near them I might go off again and hurt someone. God forbid I should turn on my own mother or brother.

As a result I have: a nasty scar on my left arm, a lingering fear of being in public places or around loved ones in case I should go nuts and hurt someone without realizing it, as well as recurring nightmares where that fear comes true.

In the time between then and now I’ve worked as a sales rep in several department stores and a customer service rep for the local electrical company. I’ve run into some pretty nasty people, but after getting stabbed, all their anger and insults doesn’t phase me in the least anymore. That guy, whose name I never did learn, was the worst customer in existence.

The End

PS. I told you this wasn’t a conventional story with a happy ending. See? I was hoping that it might impart some sense of a moral lesson, perhaps regarding the importance of self control over power. I leave its interpretation up to you.

PPS. A good trick I’ve learned to get most people who are becoming hostile to back down when you are on the clock is to stare intently at their jugular vein on the side of the neck when you speak to them. It makes them think of all their vulnerable points should they be attacked and results in them involuntarily backing down for reasons they can’t exactly explain. My degree in Psychology finally saw some use.

Personal Update

Well folks, that’s going to be the last story I’ll be posting for quite some time. I’ve got the beginnings of an idea for another, but my funds are drying up fast so I’ll be focusing on copywriting for a bit. It’s not much fun, but at least it pays.

In the meantime I’ve submitted all my work to a number of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror publications. I get rejection letters daily. Once I’ve collected enough I’ll make a collage out of them. If I ever get a full length book published I fully intend to write back to all of them and rub their faces in it. It’s the little things that keep me going…tequila too.

Another reason for my impending hiatus, aside from the fact that this page won’t load and you’ll probably never even see this post, is that I had a talk with my oncologist. Based on the protein markers in my most recent blood tests the type of cancer I’ve got is categorized as a seminoma. These little buggers are very aggressive and only respond to chemo therapy. For that reason I’ll be hooked up to a bottle of pesticide 5 days a week, every three weeks, for the next couple of months. I’ve always wondered what I’d look like bald. They tell me the fatigue will be pretty extreme. Given the fact that I can barely keep my eyes open after being awake for 8 hours as it is, I imagine I’ll be hibernating for most of the Spring. I can only hope the fatigue is a result of the cancer. If I’m still this sleepy after it’s all taken care of, it means I’m just really lazy.

Regarding my last post about my eyes. The damn things still hurt morning, noon, and night. The bad news is that my ophthalmologist can’t prescribe any sort of anesthetic seeing as they tend to melt the corneas. I like my corneas. I want to keep them. The worse news is that the expensive eye drops I had to buy aren’t doing anything. He wants to switch to some sort of steroid and cortisone treatment. Typically it’s pretty cheap, but its use has been known to cause glaucoma. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place at this point. I can’t go ahead with the treatment anyway because the chemo includes steroids already, meaning I’ll be completely hairless, nauseas, fatigued, and unable to use my eyes for the next few months. I sound like a frigging mole rat.

I’ve got some minor news with the scam front. I managed to contact the UK version of the Better Business Bureau and told them my story about being ripped off by my employer of the past few months. They’re taking it very seriously, looking through their records, and sending investigators out to all the addresses they have for these folks on file. Hopefully they will have left a paper trail by which the people running Cooper Murphy Webb can be found.

I’ll be posting again in a few months hopefully. If not… well it was fun having people read my work. Thanks to all of you who took the time.

Personal Update

Hey all. I just wanted to present a quick update of what's going on. You may find it turns into a rant, but I at least intended to keep it brief.

First off, I've just about completely healed from my surgery. This is good news because I may end up going under the knife again sometime in the near future. The results of my CT scan show several large masses in my pelvis surrounding my lower aorta. This is the primary vein that runs down from the heart, behind the stomach, and then splits off at the pelvis to provide blood to the legs. There aren't any major organs being affected by the masses, but the proximity to this vein is alarming for obvious reasons

The size of these masses suggests they are Choriocarcinoma in the 2nd stage. It's probably the first site the cancer had taken root, the testicular tumor being a secondary growth. They're still treatable at this point and typically respond well to radiation therapy, though I understand there's a high chance of being rendered sterile seeing as the radiation would be aimed directly at my groin. I never really wanted to have children anyway, but it's painful to be taken apart slowly... one piece after another.

I've lost so much of who I used to be to chronic illness over the years that I sometimes feel hollow, as if there's nothing left.

Anyway, I'm waiting for a phone call from a medical oncologist that I'm being referred to. I've been waiting since monday and think I'll be beating down his door sometime tomorrow. With the sheer number of other things I'm having to deal with at the moment I think I may be speaking literally.

Speaking of tomorrow, I have to go see my opthalmologist again in the morning. This is to check the progress of my treatment for my Superior Limbal Keratoconjunctivitis. For those who are not familiar with the term, it is an autoimmune disease in which my body is attempting to heal tissue on the surface of the eye, despite the fact that there's no actual damage. This buildup of aberrant scar tissue causes extreme pain and burning, making it incredibly difficult to even look at this screen for the few moments in which I am typing.

The treatment for this condition is going well, as far as I can tell, though the pain is not lessening in any way. The inflamation and redness has increased considerably over the past week. If the doctor sees no improvement I'll be heading to another specialist. If he does see improvement then I'll be asking for some kind of topical anesthetic so I can get on with my day with some degree of normalcy until the treatment is complete. It often takes up to a year to be fixed entirely.

As far as my work goes, the top secret job I was taking fell through. The company has pulled up stakes overnight and completely abandonned me, taking a full month's worth of my work and stiffing me for the $2,000 dollar bill. This organization is set up in the UK and it took me several days of checking before I was even able to come up with contact information, though no one will answer my letters of phone messages. At this point there's little I can do aside from flying to the UK and beating these dead beats to death with a cricket bat, though the thought had crossed my mind. It would be more tempting if I actually had the money to afford the trip.

What's even enraging is that their last message, which was sent around Christmas, contained a virulent Trojan virus which is called Vunbo11. This virus embeds itself in the windows system files of my computer and then replicates itself. Such system files cannot be manipulated or quarantined in any way, meaning I can't get to it, despite having one of the best virus protection software packages on the market. At the price I paid, their technical support line had better do their job.

This virus also prevents me from using my computer as anything other than a glorified typewriter. It cannot surf the web or be used for research, and the virus replicates itself all the while that the computer is running. To that effect I'm writing this from a different computer and can make no gaurantees regarding whether or not I'll be able to post tomorrow or the day after.

Having posted several stories in the past, I finally decided that some of my work is good enough for print. To that effect I have been submitting several short stories for publication to as many magazines I can find who are willing to pay for the rights to print them. It's taking some time and my chances seem slim to none given how badly the market is affecting small publications like this, but it helps me put out of my mind the fact that I spent the last month working 12 hour days for free.

If I ever find the man or woman who cheated me I will skin him alive, braid a whip from his own hide, tip it with his own shattered teeth, and beat him to death with it. I don't typically make casual threats and apologize if it comes as a shock, but by tricking me and using up my time they refuse me the right to make a living; to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. If I didn't live with my family I would be homeless by now. Writing is the one way that I can think of to try to earn a living, and the people who would cheat me might as well be making an attempt on my life. It amounts to the same. To that effect I don't see why action against them wouldn't be justified.

So, unable to work, to edit my rough draft of Sons of Odin, to work on a new Japanese ghost story I'm putting together, or submit my finished work in hopes of making a few extra bucks and bulking up my CV, I decided to take the day off until I could get some help from tech support. I sat down in front of the tv and fired up the old video game system, an XBOX 360 I got for Christmas several years ago. It quite literally fired up. Sparks flew and the smell of burning plastic filled the air.

After hurriedly pulling the plug to prevent fire I called customer service, finally managing to talk to a real flesh and blood human being after about a million automated messages and menus. Apparently this problem is common with XBOX 360s produced in the same batch as mine was, meaning Microsoft strikes again. Thankfully this problem is so common that they don't charge anything for it to be fixed, they even eat the cost of shipping. I used my folks' computer to fill out the forms online and printed up the shipping label to put on my package and took it to the UPS store. I figured I would get it back in two or three weeks, as the customer service rep said.

That would be too easy for someone as terminally cursed as I am. About an hour later a second email arrives. This one contains a full set of instructions on how to place the shipping label, specifying that it shouldn't be put on the inside of the box... Yes folks, it was that kind of customer service message.

It also included a small section explaining what other information should be included on the outside of the box aside from the shipping label. Nowhere on the customer service site or on any of the instructions was this message to be found, meaning I hadn't included said information when I had it shipped, seeing as the message wasn't sent until after I posted the box.

Now I've got to call up UPS in the morning when their service center is open in hopes that my package isn't lost for all freaking eternity.

Ladies and gentleman, it is at this point where I think awards, accolades, and above all, pity, is due. This has got to be the worst day of my life thus far. A term which I learned in my drama class in high school keeps coming back to haunt me: Theater of the Absurd. It's a story which is essentially so tragic that it can't possibly be real, making it funny by sheer exageration. To that effect I keep waiting for some alien intergalactic version of Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the ceiling in his faux trucker hat and vacant expression saying "Dude. Like, dude! You've been punked!"

Maybe then the last 15 years of my life will have made sense. Being on some sick version of camera candid may be psychologically crushing, but at least it will have entertained someone.

I'm not the type to think of harming myself, so please don't think I'm in any danger when I say this, but when I go to sleep tonight I'm really not looking forward to waking up.

I'm Back...Sorta

The surgery took about an hour, which is pretty long for a single procedure as I understand it. The technical name for having a testicle removed is an orchiectomy. I was so nervous they'd cut off the wrong one that I took a Sharpie marker to my leg and left instructions for the surgeon. Apparently this is common practice nowadays as around 5% of surgical excisions remove the wrong thing. Thankfully that didn't happen in my case, though the anesthesiologist said I came close to waking up a few times. They've got a really cool electrode rig that fits over your head like a paper crown that tells the doctors when your brainwaves begin to change, which typically indicates one rising to conscioussness in an anesthatized patient. If I hadn't mentioned my resistance to medications to the doctor in passing he wouldn't have taken that precaution, so it's important to be honest with the surgeon, no matter how small or insignificant something may seem.

Rather than simply cut open the scrotum, an orchiectomy involves making an incision horizontally along the top of the pelvis and then cutting through the connective tissue until the surgeon reaches the genitals. The upside to this is that they can remove the lymph nodes along the way for further testing. If it is malignant cancer it travels along the lymph nodes first and foremost. The downside to this procedure is that they had to cut through most of my groin muscle. If you've ever experienced the pain of straining or pulling your groin, think how much it must hurt to have the darn thing severed.

I was bedbound for the first couple days, unable to move for fear of twisting at the waist. Thankfully I was able to move to the couch for Christmas morning to be with the family as they unwrapped presents. I never know what to get them, but I really enjoy wrapping presents and seeing them admire the packaging. There are only ever so many things that could be inside, and since it was a lean year we all had a pretty good idea of what we were getting, but there's just something about seeing those nicely wrapped presents under the tree on Christmas morning. There is a feeling of spontenaity, a sense that the little glittering packages could contain anything at all. It makes the experience exciting and unique. The downside to this is that once Christmas Morning is over, the moment that you've looked forward to for Lord knows how many months is over. It brings on feelings of ennui. Needless to say I was on heavy painkillers for the whole experience, as anyone who knows me would guess by the presence of that temporary moment of optimism back there.

I'm trying to get things back to normal, but I won't receive the pathologist's report until Monday. Meaning I don't know whether or not I need to go back for diagnostics to find the cancer if it's one of the kind that's likely to have spread. This combined with the extreme fatigue from the surgery as well as the muddling effects of my pain medications means I'm not good for much.

The fatigue should've passed by now, meaning it's possible that it's resulting from the thyroid problem I've suspected for the last few months. Of course I won't know for sure until I go back to the health department and repeat this whole process, which could take up to 6 months, provided of course the cancer has indeed been taken care of.

My contracters have been kind enough to allow me a few days to recuperate, but they will expect me back on the job by Monday as well. The fatigue and mental fog I'm experiencing is very distressing as I'm not sure I'll be able to make my deadlines with my head full of cotton. In the meantime I'm trying to get my hand back in by polishing up a few short stories for online magazine publication and generally living a life of quiet desperation. I'll try to muddle through as best I can, but it's frustrating I can't seem to catch a break. Thanks for the feedback and show of support all.

Time to see the Butcher

Well folks it looks like the surgeon's are getting a bit impatient. You know how it is with people like that. Shiny new knives and nothing to cut.

They'll be throwing me on the table at 7AM tuesday morning. I don't know why it has to be so early. Personally I don't want to be worked on until the doc's had his coffee and cleared his eyes, but I guess they have other ideas.

Beside the lingering fear of my own mortality, the biggest hurdle I've got to overcome is calming my folks. This is a routine surgery (aren't they all) but still there is always the danger of bleeding out as the initial incisions come pretty close to the femoral artery. Anyone who knows about triage from a brawl or knife fight knows that the femoral artery, once knicked, retracts up against the bone of the pelvis, making it really tough to clamp, even in surgical conditions. With my mother being an RN for almost 20 years she knows most of that better than I do, making it all the more difficult to console her that everything will be OK. Even if the surgery goes well, the chances are high that I'm facing some form of cancer, though testicular cancer is the most easily treated form of cancer there is, which is a small mercy.

Being self employed means I've got no health insurance. The only reason I'm being treated at all is because of a charity organization set up in my county, which happens to be one of the wealthiest in the state. Thank God for retirees from up North. (never thought I'd say that before)

Another big concern involves my track record with anesthesia. I'm incredibly resistant to anything which puts me under. I've had 3 gastroinestinal exploratory procedures and one oral surgery over the years. Each time I woke up in the middle of surgery and began speaking to the surgeons, who wigged out of course. Each time in post-op they would inform me that it took enough medications to drop an elephant to keep me under.

I think my most amusing experience was my oral surgery, which required they drill into my upper palate to get at the canine teeth which wouldn't drop on their own. They gave me a nitrous oxide mask to breath into and told me to count backward from 100. By the time I reached 50 the nurse was crossing herself in disbelief and the surgeon muttered "holy shit" to himself. It did nothing, though one of the nurses was promptly knocked out the moment she took a breath from the mask to see if the tank feed was working properly. After waiting for more than 10 minutes, breathing from the mask, the doctor had me hooked up to an IV and gave me a dose of something else, which finally did the trick. It wasn't so funny when I was charged extra for the use of more medications.

In any case, don't expect me to post for the next few days as the recovery process will take some time. Wish me luck.

Health Update

First off I'd like to thank the kind lady who posted such glowing comments on a few of my articles. It's always very touching to find out that someone actually reads this thing of their own volition. It really helped me get through the day given what went on.

As I already explained I had a large growth in a part of the body that only males of the species posses. I first noticed it in early september and since then it's swollen up to the size of a kiwi fruit and been very painful. Being flat broke and having no health insurance I had to sign up for a medical aid offered by the county. It took quite some time for them to get the paperwork done and setup my appointment with a specialist, but I finally got to see one today. He took one look and decided I needed an ultrasound.

These doctors donate their time to the local clinics, so the're no slouches when it comes to their professions, even among the extremely exacting standards of most physicians. I got the ultrasound done about an hour later. It was no different than when they look at a baby in the womb, using that gel and wand. The only issue was this it was on a decidedly more delicate portion of my anatomy, and the lab tech was a very attractive young lady. The gel was quite warm and the wand gives off slight vibrations, needless to say I spent the entire half hour imaging session clenching my fists and thinking of baseball else I should inadvertantly offend the kind woman who was performing the ultrasound. She called in a radiologist, who looked over the results and promptly informed me that I had a tumor the size of walnut in one of my testicles.

I had kind of expected something like that with my luck. Thankfully he said it was insular, or turned inward on itself, and therefore much more likely to be benign instead of a malignant cancer. In either case it was both the radiologist's and the specialist's opinion that the testicle be removed in its entiretey ASAP. I'm now waiting for them to round up an anesthesiologist and get a hold of a surgery theater, which they say should be ready by the end of the week. I had never really intended to have children anyway, and since the other of the pair is still intact I most likely will retain the capacity. Yet I am a little bothered by the possible decrease in testosterone that may result. With as many odd things that happen to me I find it helps to have naturally agressive reactions to possible threats. In any case the possibility still exists that the tumor may be cancerous, if so then it will most certainly have had the chance to metastasize. As a result they will do a biopsy once the amputation is complete.

Oddly enough I was never scared, not when I first noticed the problem or when any of the physicians I saw tried to prepare me for the worst. My chief concern is waking up in the middle of surgery. I did so during the last 4 surgeries I had, despite the fact that I was given doses of anesthesia that were considered sufficient to put a horse in a coma, let alone a human being who wasn't even fully grown at the time. Waking up in the middle of serious oral surgery is bad enough, but this is one worse in my opinion, so I'll make sure to mention that history of chemical resistance to the anesthesiologist.

I'm hoping that it's just a side effect of the tumor throwing off my limbic system, but I've also begun to show the classic signs of hypothyroidism too. My skin flakes, my eyes are so dry they stick when I blink them sometimes, I gain weight despite the fact that I eat less than 1,000 calories a day, and I can sleep up to 16 hours at a time if I let myself. The constant mental fatigue is an issue as well seeing as I'm working on a contract with some very strict deadlines.

Of course there's also the issue of my Superior Limbal Keratoconjunctivitis. It turns out it's an autoimmune disease where abberant tissue begins to grow in a crescent shape over the top of my irises seperating the colored part of the eye from the white of the surrounding sclera. Thankfully this almost never causes any problems with vision, but it does cause extreme eye dryness, pain, and burning whenever my eyes are open and mild aching sensations when they're closed. Given that my job has me staring at a computer screen all day this is damned near an ironic tragedy. I started working at home because my stomach was too messed up to make attending any form of job a possibility. I finally think I've got a chance at making a career for myself and not ending up on the street once I'm living on my own, and the two things that I need my body for crap out on me: my eyes and my ability to concentrate for long periods of time.

I've seen an opthalmologist for it, apparently half of all people who have this disease also have thyroid disorders, which simply serves to back my concerns. He prescribed me a new drug in eye drop form called Restasis. Apparently it's an anti-cancer medication which supresses and reverses the growth of aberrant or non-standard living tissue. This medication came out several years ago, before that my eye problem was fixed by either thermal cauterization of the tissue (YOWCH!), or surgical excision of the tissue (YUCK!). In either case there exists the possibility that this tissue will grow back, meaning that the Restasis is my best chance at resolving the problem without serious, costly, and dangerous eye surgery. Unfortunately it can take up to 6 months before it shows good progress in fixing my eyes. In the meantime I've got to live with the pain and burning every moment that I'm awake.

I know lots of people have things far worse than I do, but please allow me a paragraph or two of self pity, as everyone's entitled to it now and again. I've got a loving family that understands and supports me, long past the point that I would've expected them to, and I feel terrible that as I grow older I'm not able to look out for their wellbeing as I thought I would when I was little. I still rely on them more than vice-versa. As a child my scholastics were encouraged and I thought I would go into something in the hard sciences, perhaps be an engineer like my father. Now I can't even work at the local supermarket because of ineffectively diagnosed and insuccessfully treated gastrointestinal disorders, thyroid problems, emotional disorders, and autoimmune problems. It makes me wonder what happens when there's no one there to look out for me anymore, and truthfully that's a thought filled with such oil-slick black formless chattering terror that it wakes me from a sound sleep at night and makes me work as I do now, regardless of fatigue or failing health. It's the moments of silence in the dead of night that I fear the most, when the day's work is done as there is nothing else I can distract myself with.

Funny that the prospect of dying on the surgery table in the upcoming days or facing a long losing battle with cancer doesn't scare nearly as much as these simple thoughts of being alone and not having the strength to support myself. I wonder what that says about me. I'll try to keep up my posts to this site, as you may know my other blog animenothentai.com is on hiatus as I haven't the time to sit down and read books or watch animes to review, let along actually write the darn things. In my spare moments I manage to jot down a few lines and hope to build a backlog, so please be patient with me.

As always I'll tell you that I make a small portion of my living with the revenue from the ads on this site. If you want to do me a favor that costs you nothing but a few seconds of your time, please click on one of the links on the top left portion of this page. They're all legitimate and quite harmless. Also should any of you like to comment or perhaps establish a dialogue, your input would be more than welcome.

How to Hurt a Guy Permanently

This technique is not taught in any self defense or martial arts manual that I know of. It was performed by a friend of mine when he was attacked by 5 men at once when he was out delivering pizza one night during my college attendance in Orlando. I happened to have been present because it was near the end of his shift and we were going out to a friend’s house afterward. Please keep in mind my very good friend (who prefers to remain nameless) grew up in inner-city Philadelphia and was attending college on a wrestling scholarship after having been the captain of both his middle school and high school teams. He could’ve disabled his opponent without doing him harm, but was disinclined to do so as he’d just had the side of his skull cracked in with a set of brass knuckles. As you can imagine he was a little angry at that point. I would liked to have presented a series of graphics for each step of this technique but can find nothing remotely approaching this online or off.

This is a defensive move performed in close quarters which will permanently cripple or kill your opponent, so unless you want to spend the rest of your life in jail it had better be a life threatening situation.

Step 1:
Step forward to your opponent’s right so the exterior of your right shoulder is in line with the right side of your opponent’s neck. Your chest should be pressed against your opponent’s at a slight angle as the two of you are not exactly standing face to face.

Step 2:
Grip your opponent’s right wrist with your left hand to prevent him from striking you with it. Snake your right arm forward over the top of your opponent’s right shoulder. Essentially your armpit should be placed over the top of the shoulder next to the neck with your arm hanging down over his back.

Step 3:
Reach your arm down across your opponent’s back to grip the inner curve of his left elbow, holding it back so he’s unable to drive his left arm forward. This is not so much to prevent him from attacking as it is to prevent him from catching himself in the next few steps. Just to recap, the back of your upper arm should be pressing hard against the back of your opponent’s neck while your hand tightly grips his left elbow and pulls it up and backward.

Step 4:
Place your right foot firmly atop your opponent’s left foot. Turn your toe outward to your right so the arch of your foot straddles his foot as high up near the juncture with the ankle as possible. Place your entire body’s weight on that foot to pin your opponent’s leg in place.

Step 5:
Fall straight backwards, keeping your right foot in place for as long as possible as you do so. Do not let your legs bend or bend forward at the waist, you want to impact with as much weight and momentum as possible, though you might tilt your head forward so as not to crack the back of it against the ground. Prior to your back a striking flat against the ground, drive your elbow back toward the ground, pressing your opponent’s head forward. If performed on a soft surface this technique may not be lethal, though it will still be crippling. If done on stone, concrete, or pavement then it will most likely kill.

Explanation:
There are two things which these steps do. The first involves placing your weight on your opponent’s foot. Because you are falling backward you’re pulling your opponent forward with you. Typically when falling forward the heel rises before the toes do, it’s just how we’re built. If this is prevented from happening by pinning the foot, the next joint up the leg will bend instead. In this case we’re talking about the knee. The only problem is the knee doesn’t bend forward, but it will when your own body’s weight combined with that of your opponent’s is multiplied by the acceleration of gravity. Essentially it shatters the knee, bending it 90 degrees in the wrong direction.

Let’s look at the placement of the arms now. First by pushing your opponent’s arms back he is unable to break his fall and is pulled along with you. Because your right arm and shoulder is pressing against the back of his neck his head is forced forward, making his forehead the principle point of impact upon falling, combining your body weight with that of your opponent’s. One of two things can happen depending on the degree to which the head is forced forward. If it is forced forward so far that the majority of the crown impacts squarely then the shock will travel down the skull and either fracture or break the bones of the neck. If the forehead impacts at an angle it will cause the front of the skull to crack open. In the instance when I saw this done it was the latter of the possibilities which occurred.

As the injured party had no witnesses, what with his thief friends running off at the sight of blood, it was me and my friend’s word against his. What’s more he was still wearing the brass knuckles when the police showed up, which just so happened to match the indentations in my buddy’s skull. Furthermore my friend had the pizza order which explained his presence in that neighborhood; the thug didn’t live anywhere nearby. The friend had a nasty egg on his head for about a week and the doctor’s refused to believe he’d retained consciousness throughout the entire episode, but the matter was quickly forgotten, likely due to a concussion in my friend’s case. He soon decided to work in a much safer line of work; campus security. He was about the only non-military student who worked in that department, having proven himself by flooring half a dozen of the other ROTC candidates for the job. He got paid much better and had police backup on call, though he saw less action in that job than he did delivering pizzas.